


His Best Man

by westernredcedar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Grief, M/M, Not Season 3 Compliant, Post-Reichenbach, ambiguous relationship under development, what if John figures it out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westernredcedar/pseuds/westernredcedar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On day twenty-three, the fog lifts and John figures it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Twenty-Three Days

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to bk7brokemybrain and woldy, who both gave this first portion a look-over and made many helpful comments. I have messed with it quite a lot since then, so the errors are all mine.  
> Huge credit to arianedevere, whose amazing transcripts allowed me to pull lines easily and use them in this piece.  
> Also, Note that this was started long before Season 3, and the title comes from Sherlock's line, "Putting my best man onto it right now," from The Great Game, rather than any wedding related shenanigans.

Kitchen. Morning. 0700 hours on the clock.

Mrs. Hudson (subdued, distinct periorbital puffiness) saying, "When mum passed in 92, I remember the first five days I couldn't get my feet under me, either. You'll begin to feel better now, dear. You should eat." Eggs, glassy-eyed and blank. John looks at his hands.

So. That was five days.

"Thank you." Reflexive. He’s missed the last few minutes. The nightmares have been so bad.

"I've made more to share, when he comes in."

Lungs empty. _Oh God._ Then just as suddenly, _No, not him. Greg. Greg Lestrade, not letting him be alone. Because. Well. Many reasons._

"I couldn't manage without you, Mrs. Hudson." Voice again. A surprise.

Shoulder squeeze, kiss on the cheek. "Tea's in the pot." Light step on the stairs.

So, five days. He should start to keep track. Was the funeral yesterday? Or, has no time passed, and he is still standing on the street, blood running in the cracks of the pavement? Possible.

Stop. Ridiculous. Eat an egg on toast. Get dressed. Day five.

 

It is day twelve when John first sees the man.

The planet remains out of order, and John's shoes float on a centimeter cushion of air as he walks out of Baker Street. Greg is there, though, and that helps hold him down. He's real enough, all practicality and patience.

Greg has stayed on. His wife is serious this time, apparently, and he'd been bunking on sofas, before. Before. Before he was put on some sort of paid leave, pending. Before there was a bed made available, although he has slept on the sofa most nights. No reason Greg would know which room was Sherlock's. He'd assume that John was sleeping in his own room, yes? Recently (has it been enough time, did an invisible marker get passed that would make using Sherlock's bed less morbid?) Greg has emerged from John's room in the mornings. John imagines he has changed the linens, thinking he is sleeping in a dead man's bed.

John has not changed the linens. He can't imagine when he ever will.

But Greg is there, tethering John down to reality as he floats out of Baker Street. Greg waves down a cab and John waits.

Something flutters, just a glimpse out of the corner of his eye. John's foggy mind sparks, he looks. The man is a filthy, unobtrusive figure leaning against the phone box and digging through a wrinkled paper bag.

No one he knows. But.

Something.

Greg has a cab, and John gets in.

 

Nothing like standing before a judge on an assault charge, John realizes, to get one's feet firmly planted on the planet. Greg had tried to get him out of the hearing (due to emotional distress, no less, and god would Sherlock have loved that), but the Chief Inspector's nose had actually been broken, so here he is.

The judge is a woman, hard-faced but with gentle eyes. John wishes he could get the run-down from Sherlock, she seems like an interesting one. She listens to the evidence for less than five minutes and then sentences him to anger management counseling and a round of community service.

"That went well, John," says Greg as they retreat down the marble corridor, footfalls echoing as if they are in a high-budget spy-thriller. "Couldn't have asked for better."

"I've already been in therapy for my anger."

"Justice system. Not always that concerned with results, I'm afraid. She may as well have shaken her finger at you and said 'Just don't do it again, young man.'"

John laughs, then suddenly he can't go on. He stops. Greg stops a step later and turns around, hands in his pockets.

"You all right?" Greg Lestrade.

He has to shake his head for a few moments before words will come. "No. But Greg…th…" John hasn't cried for a week, and never in front of anyone else, but he feels it coming now.

"It's a whole mess of shit, isn't it?" Greg replies, and John sputters a little, laughs and nods, and starts walking, tight lump in his chest. Greg places a light hand on his shoulder and walks by his side.

 

The man on the street is gone when they return to the flat, but John looks at where he was standing and can feel the throb of memory like an image afterburn in his brain.

Greg orders in and Mrs. Hudson joins them. It is almost normal, for a moment. Sherlock might be out on a wander, as he does. He wouldn't eat anyway. Maybe there's a case. He'll hop up the stairs two at a time. Any moment now.

Supper is cleared. John waits. No one comes.

Night. The lights go out and John swims into Sherlock's sheets, nose buried in his pillow, and reality crashes in around him. Night is for this. The replay, making it all real.

The part that plays over the most is the crying. The honest to god crying, because Jesus, John had never heard that before, and the only way he can process the terror of those tears is to listen to them again and again and again until they become nonsense and he can sleep.

Also, the falling, slow and beautiful and relentless.

He watches it like a film, listens to the trembling voice (it never trembled) and sees that one hand, stretching out (to touch him? to grab on? to say goodbye?). And then he watches the whole thing again. John knows he has other memories, a whole life before that moment, but he can't access those in the dark anymore. Only this. So he wades in, takes a deep breath, and submerges.

 

Day fifteen. Greg takes him to a film. "Get your mind on something else for a few hours, John. I’m buying." It's an American thing with lots of explosions. Flashback material, before, but Helmand has been replaced for the moment.

The man is there as usual when they return to Baker Street, leaning against the phone box with a paper bag. John stops and stares and feels the tug of…something. Greg has bought sandwiches, so John allows his obedient feet to carry him up to the flat.

Top of the stairs. Greg is still and concerned in the center of the room, and Mrs. Hudson is there, tea ready and hands wringing. "I'm sorry, John, but I couldn't say no, not to him, he’s family. I know you'd have wanted to help, picked some things to keep. You should phone him, he's not unreasonable…"

It takes John a full minute to realize what is wrong. Sherlock has been removed from the flat while they were away. Violin, skull, chemistry set-up. Bookshelf has been picked clean. Leather armchair missing. John is freely floating again, untethered, from kitchen to bedrooms to bathroom. Clothes, all three cupboards and every drawer. Laptop. Toothbrush and deodorant and shampoo. Dressing gowns. Hair brush. Bed linens. Oh god.

Mycroft. Has to be. Suddenly coming all full of brotherly nostalgia? Or paranoid that the flat is full of national secrets hastily stored in jam jars? Probably both. John imagines the team of agents it must have taken to clear out so much shit in three hours. They must have watched for the moment John and Greg left and then moved in.

John doesn't stop walking, passes the worried glances, down the stairs, out the door, and away. Just away, as fast as possible, walking hard, until he can feel the ground under his feet again.

 

Home. Early morning. Greg is asleep on the sofa in his clothes. John considers the state of his back trying to get comfortable on that thing. He should offer to pay for a masseuse. Maybe a pretty one. Yes. He'll do that.

John drops his jacket on the (only) chair and Greg stirs with the sound. Rubs his hand down his face as he swings his legs over and sits up, stretching.

"Back?"

"Yep. Yes." John doesn't know what this moment will be. He turns to the kitchen and starts the kettle.

"All right?"

John can't answer. God. Sherlock would know better than to ask that. Suddenly John misses him so much he has to lean all of his weight against the counter to remain standing.

"I've moved my things out of your room so you can use it, now the other room's cleared out,” Greg says. Thankfully, John's turned away, so Greg cannot see his flush.

"Sure. Right." Watches the start of bubbles in the kettle. "Didn't think you knew."

"John. I know I'm not…him…but I am a damn good detective. I can determine whose bedroom I'm sleeping in."

John snorts, and closes his eyes.

"Honestly, I thought…" Greg hesitates. "Well, we had all sorts of theories. I was never sure, but I imagined…"

The kettle clicks off, and John rattles the mugs as loudly as he can. "Imagined?"

"So, you weren't? There were still two."

John pours a mug, tries not to spill. Hand shaking. “Two?”

"Bedrooms."

John finishes the tea, milk for him, one sugar for Greg, and stirs slowly. "There were two." Takes a breath. Walks in to sit in his chair and face the empty space in front of it.

Greg stands to take his cup, then sits again. Legs splayed, elbows on knees, concern and curiosity at war on his face. "But you were…together." He says it. It's not a question.

“I can’t...” John's gaze comes to rest on Sherlock’s leather chair, inexplicably pushed into the far corner of the room, a pile of sheet music left neatly on the seat. Huh.

Greg's phone buzzes in the silence. He closes his eyes, sighs, and looks. "Christ. John. I've got to take this. The Yard."

"Ah, you back on?" The chair. His eyes can't leave it.

"In a manner. Sort of...special assignment." Buzzes again. "Sorry."

"No. It's fine. Good. It's your job."

Greg quirks his lips to the right, brow creased, then says, "Right. I'll be a moment," and vanishes into the bathroom.

John stares at the displaced chair, and his tea cools before he remembers to take a sip.

 

Greg rushes out of the flat ten minutes later, shave cream dotting his collar.

Walking all night has cleared John's head. He should sleep, but he’s wired. He starts a room by room survey.

Sherlock is not entirely gone.

His fur-lined winter boots are in the downstairs cupboard, tucked behind John's dusty combat boots and Mrs. Hudson's Wellies. One piece from Sherlock’s art collection still hangs on the wall (the poor copy of Vermeer's 'View of Delft' that John found at a boot sale and gave to Sherlock as a joke- he dubbed it 'the fake' and John painted a little supernova in the center). The pile of sheet music on the chair, and two other folders tucked into the lowest bookshelf (all Bach, for some reason). John pulls all of the books off every shelf in the flat and sorts them (memories of bins and bins of books flood back, and John's chest tightens and hardens), finding enough that are Sherlock's to cover the sofa in teetering piles. All manner of things left in storage: three old microscopes, hundreds of slides in an old chest, an entire cupboard of chemistry gear, his immense soil and rock collection, all labeled in precise, tiny hand. His furniture: bed, dresser, ancestral side tables. All of his spare linens. A half empty bottle of his home-brewed hair serum in the third drawer (the _scent_ , John hides it away and slams the drawer). An almost full bottle of scotch (two glasses drunk, shortly after Dartmoor, Sherlock hoping to better John’s pedestrian taste), and John has to sit down for a few minutes after he finds it.

So. Not all of his things. Just. Some. Did they simply miss the rest? No. Mycroft doesn't miss things. So. Just his everyday things. His. Jesus.

Why does this feel worse?

 

Day twenty. He tries to explain, even wants to explain, but the words won’t come, no matter how thoughtfully Ella sits at attention across from him, her notepad and pen at the ready.

Therapy adds an odd realism to the surreal life John has been leading, having to admit out loud truths he cannot even think in his head. In the worst silences, he reminds himself the session counts towards his sentence, and then he can breathe again.

 

Day twenty-two. John jerks awake in a hot sweat late at night, and barely contains a shout.

He’s got it. Cyclist. _Cyclist._

 _Being knocked to the pavement, quick glimpse of sturdy knees, shoes, cap, profile, shoulders as he rode away without stopping. Head slammed. No. No time for pain. Sherlock. He's falling. He's_ falling. _Not too late. Catch him. Run._

 _Cyclist._ It’s the same man. The man on the street, at the phone box, with the paper bag. The man on the bicycle at Bart's. John has never been more certain about anything in his life.

He's up and pacing now. _Cyclist._ Why? Why? Why would the same man who knocked him down on his bicycle be lurking at the door of Baker Street sorting a paper bag and looking like he slept in the gutter? Was he run down on purpose? Who is he? Damn, Sherlock would know. He would have known the first day. Breath coming hard. Fuck. Fuck it all. _Fuck you. Why did you do it? Why did you leave me here alone??_

"All right?" Greg cracks open the door.

John's fist is through the plaster. "I think I need some help, actually."

"Bloody hell, John." Greg, in his pajamas. He chips out the sharper pieces and pulls back wallpaper without further comment, and John wrenches his hand free, knuckles bloodied and raw.

"Anything broken? Besides the wall, I mean?" Greg calls to John as he washes and cleans his hand in the bathroom.

"No." But it hurts like hell. "I can manage it here, no need to go in."

John finishes bandaging, and then splashes water on his face. It's four in the morning.

The cyclist. Could be Moriarty's man, of course. But why knock John over? Moriarty would want John to see… to see it all, wouldn't he? Still. John thinks about where his gun is hidden.

Out in the living room, Greg has tea prepared. His hair is pressed up to standing on one side and John smiles. Everything seems a little bit sharper than it has for weeks.

"The hole in the wall will make Mrs. Hudson think it's old times around here," John says lightly, and then his chest closes in and he can hardly breathe.

"Is there anything you want to talk about?" Greg Lestrade.

"Nothing really."

"That's a bloody great hole in the wall over nothing."

John nods. "Just sorting something out."

"Yeah?"

Nothing to lose. "There's been a man, a street person, on Baker Street. I recognize him. He was there, when Sherlock...outside Bart's. I think he's watching me."

"Oh." John sees Greg straighten up, filing that thought away, looking quite like a policeman tonight, save the hair. "Who do you reckon it is?"

"Don't know. I just put it together. It's probably nothing." It's not nothing, though. "I'll tell you if I see him again."

"Do that. Do that, John."

A formalness in Greg's tone, in the set of his shoulders, and something obvious clicks into place in John's head. He sets down his cup.

"Greg, why are you here?"

He looks up. "What do you mean?" Still his work face. Why didn't John notice before?

"I mean here. It's been weeks. Staying in my flat."

Greg's quiet. He doesn't even try to pretend.

"I'm your special assignment. Is that it? Jesus. Am I in custody?"

Greg sets down his cup and runs his fingers through his hair, settling it back down. Sigh. He slumps back on the sofa. A man who has been waiting to be caught. "Not custody, no. Of course not, John."

"So. Surveillance?"

Greg's lips are pinched. "I'm here first as your friend, John. Honestly."

"But?" John's blood is racing and his hand is throbbing.

"We should sort it out in the morning."

"I just put my hand through a wall, Greg. Let’s sort it now."

"I…" Another sigh. “The thing is, we still don't know, do we? Not really. And we know he talked to you. Before he jumped." Suddenly John can't breathe. "He never even ended the call, just tossed his mobile aside." Oh god. John didn't know that. "What did he say to you?"

John can't feel his toes. "I…can't…"

"John, look at me." Greg's voice is clear and calming. John looks. "Right now, it appears to almost everyone that Sherlock Holmes arranged countless crimes and murders in order to glorify himself as a master detective, fled from the police, then dragged his hired help to a rooftop, shot him in the head, and jumped off a building to his death."

John inhales so hard he makes himself choke. Greg doesn’t flinch. "We don't have much to go on, John. I don't want to believe it, but I can't undo it without you. And we _can_ undo it, if it isn't true." Greg's eyes are clear and steady.

“It isn’t true.”

"But...” Greg leans in and almost whispers. John cannot get his breath. “But...John, if all of those cases were really him, _his_ crimes…if he fooled us all, you included. Then I was the one who invited him in. And I. I have to…to make it right." Impossible position. God. "Please, John. That phone call. What did he say to you?"

_Rooftop, hand reaching out. ”It's…all true.”_

John stands up and shakes off a shiver that runs through his entire body. "So that's why you’re here? Gathering evidence? Waiting for me to share a confidence and solve your case?"

"John."

"I have to go to bed. My hand hurts."

"John, if someone is following you, watching you, I can offer protection. I'm your friend, John. Truly." Greg's voice follows him all the way to Sherlock's bare mattress. John collapses there, and doesn't sleep at all.

 

Sometime in the late morning, John lies flat across the bed staring at the ceiling, thoughts spinning whirling shifting. _Perhaps this is what it is like to be Sherlock._ The thought is agony.

So. The cyclist. At Bart’s, and then outside his door. In disguise. Watching him? Why? Sherlock’s things gone, but not gone. Hair serum. Delft. Winter boots. Richard Brook dead on the roof. But. There is no Richard Brook. So, Moriarty, dead. Killed by Sherlock? Maybe so. That cyclist. Why knock John down? And why leave that scotch? Mycroft probably adores the stuff, so. Why?

_”It's…all true.”_

But it isn’t. John knows that. It is not a guess or a deduction. Sherlock is not a fake, and that is a plain, ordinary, old-fashioned _fact_.

Why, Sherlock? Why?

Greg is gone when John emerges from the bathroom later, clean and clear and pressed. And desperate to talk to Sherlock.

“Mrs. Hudson?” Down the stairs. “Would you? Come with? To the...to visit him.”

They gather a few things and Mrs. Hudson shares a sugary cup of coffee with John (more damn memories) before they head out to the pavement.

The man, the cyclist, is there again, against the phone box, crumpled bag in hand, as John ushers Mrs. Hudson into the cab for the cemetery. This time John stares at him and the man meets his eye, then looks away. As they pull out, John looks back. He can swear the man is texting.

 

 

_Don’t. Be. Dead._

He’d left the flat so confident, but the newly turned soil and the black, glossy headstone (utterly bleak, selected by Mycroft no doubt) and the sad flowers break him down so quickly that he cannot even remember what he needs to say until the very last moment.

_Don’t. Be. Dead._

On the way home, he texts Greg.

**The watcher is back. Won’t return to the flat. Told Mrs. H I'll be away without worrying her.**

And then, because they are friends first, truly.

**Don’t worry. Not running. Going to my sister’s. Contact me there.**

_Don’t. Be. Dead._

The cab drops Mrs. Hudson off but John continues on to Regent's Park. He needs to walk and think. Something sharp edged and dangerous is starting to take shape in his mind. Because.

Because, some man knocked him down so that he didn’t really see Sherlock after he... _hit the ground_ ; and because that same man has been watching his flat and looking very much like _a homeless man being well-paid_ ; and because someone came and took out some, but not all, of Sherlock’s things, the things one might need, say, to set up _a short-term bolthole_ , not planning for winter; and because Sherlock told John _”It's…all true,”_ when it is most definitely not true; but mostly because, Sherlock, because fuck you, _you taught me how to think this way_.

These are all things, John thinks, that mean - when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth - that Sherlock might not be...no. He _saw_ him. The blood. No. Don’t think. Prove it.

Okay. So. If he did it, if he... _isn’t_...he didn’t ask John to help. For some reason. John does not think about that too deeply right now. So. Someone helped. If he did it. It would be hard.

These are perilous thoughts. John sits on a bench and stares out at some ducks.

He’s awake now. Feet on the ground, fog cleared, world glowing like crystal. Because. Maybe he’s. Not.

So, who? Who helped?

Phone.

John hasn’t been much of a correspondent, since. His in-box is full of unread and unanswered messages and texts from friends, reporters, Harry, Mycroft, Mike, even fucking Anderson. Nervy bastard. Jesus, they must be worried about him. He texts Harry, asking if he can stay. She texts right back. **YES.**

He scrolls through the mess of notes. Searching. Sherlock would know what to look for. John isn’t sure. He sends brief responses to anyone who sounds desperately worried.

He walks some more, phone in hand, gravel crunching in a solid, lively way underfoot. Would Sherlock go to Mycroft? He would hate that, but if anyone could help him disappear it would be his brother. Obvious though. _Boring._ Keep thinking.

Wait.

He scans through his texts and voicemails again. Then again. To be sure. Then again. Nope, not there. Not once.

John sits, his breath shallow. This is madness, just some phase of grief (denial?) that he is passing through like any ordinary bloke who misses his friend.

But.

He sets his shoulders, brings up his contacts, and hits call. Just to be sure.

Her voice is watery and uncertain when she answers. “John? Is it you?”

“Molly.”

“Oh John. I’m so sorry.”

Long pause. Too long. Awkward. John’s heart accelerates. Maybe.

“Is he alive, Molly?”

He was going to say something else, something conversational to start. But. _Don’t. Be. Dead._

Silence. Thick. Then, “What do you mean?” _Not “No.”_

“I think he might be, Molly.”

Then, in her soft whisper, “Oh god.”

“You never phoned me. You should have called.”

“I...” Molly’s voice cracks and John steadies his heart for the inevitable. This is the woman who knows, who felt his cold skin and who washed the blood and who held his organs in her hands. He waits for the door to slam shut forever, breath held and feet flat on the ground.

Then, she says, so quiet he can hardly hear, “He said not to.”

"He?"

Breathless. Oh god. Oh. John floats free for a blissful moment, high above the park, taking in the full view of his city (gray and gorgeous, ancient and alive, the battlefield).

"John, I...can't..." panicked whisper. Then silence. Call ended.

He closes his eyes and drifts back down to the bench, utterly peaceful. Because. Maybe.

The world is made of crystal.

 

John sits in the corner of a pub, enjoying his second pint of utter relief, when he starts thinking again.

Maybe. No, probably. And probably Molly knows how, and where, and that is...well...John can’t come up with proper words to describe what that is, only knows that he has been blissed out and grinning for the past hour. He’s felt like this only one other time in recent memory (two glasses of Scotch, firelight, don’t think about that, John). Now that the euphoria is starting to wear off, he is left with the fact that Sherlock likely faked his death, forcing John to be a witness, and has disappeared without a word. So. What the fuck.

Perhaps he should be angry now? John considers it, rolls the emotion around in his head, but nope, it doesn’t take. He’s just relieved. No, not relieved. Giddy. Ecstatic.

The question that needles its way into his head, though, is _why?_ WHY?

What would Sherlock do with a problem of this magnitude? John takes a long draw off his pint and imagines. Rude insults to clear the room, nicotine patches (or cigarettes, John’s no fool), abuse, mind palace, irritated and active silence until it all falls into place. (Alive. He’s alive.) Well, John is alone, doesn’t smoke, and hasn’t built a mind _hovel_ , much less palace, so his methods will have to be more concrete.

He takes his empty to the bar and orders another, then asks for a paper napkin and a pen.

**Evidence for:**  
 **Phone call- Mrs. Hudson shot. A way to get rid of me?**  
 **Cyclist- intentionally knocked me down so I couldn’t see**  
 **Now watching the flat**  
 **Homeless network?**  
 **Molly knows something, never called me**  
 **She said he**  
 **Molly was in charge of the autopsy and death certificate**  
 **She helped**

John pauses and runs his fingers through the cool condensation on his glass and reads over his work. Ah, there’s this.

**Mycroft removed his stuff from flat**  
 **Mycroft knows where he is**

Now. Close eyes, play through the events at Bart’s again. It is surprising that with the agony gone, the scene plays much more clearly. _Sentiment, John._ Then he adds to the list.

**Sherlock insisted I not move**  
 **Controlled what I could see**  
 **Sherlock confessed to being a fake**  
 **Sherlock told me to tell everyone he was a fake**

Huh. John reads that bit again.

**Sherlock told me to tell everyone he was a fake**

This wasn’t a suicide note. Sherlock knew he wasn’t about to die. So. Not a confession at all. _”Tell anyone who will listen to you.”_ Not a confession.

Instructions.

Wait.

He’s faked his death, and John and everyone else of consequence believes it. Hell, there’s a bloody obnoxious grave marker that must have cost a small fortune over freshly turned soil with sad flowers in front. He’s brilliant at this sort of thing. A genius. John should not be able to discover the truth this easily. So. Why?

**Why hire a man I might recognize (cyclist) to watch flat**  
 **Why only have Mycroft remove some things, not all**  
 **Why tell Molly not to call me (I’d expect it)**

_Sloppy._ That’s not it, though. No.

 _Breadcrumbs_. The word pops into his head. A trail of evidence left behind that only John can follow. A personal message. Vermeer, 'the fake'. The scotch, that particular scotch. Oh god. John takes a long drink and stares at the scrawls on the napkin. Molly’s silence, Mycroft setting the scene, cyclist on stakeout. Scotch and supernova for John. Jesus. Even his fucking armchair was _in a new place_ but _not gone_.

**_He meant for me to figure it out._ **

The pen tears through the napkin, he presses so hard.

Greg’s words come back to him. _"We know he talked to you. Before he jumped. He never even ended the call."_ He never ended the call to John. He never ended the call, because the line is still open.

Damn it, Sherlock. You utter dick.

It’s day twenty-three. John figures it out.

 

 

So.

John’s heart takes hours to slow. The world has flipped on its head once more, and so he walks, hard and fast, to let his mind catch up. _Now what, Sherlock?_

He knows what to do next, though. Sherlock told him, clear as day.

The cyclist is nowhere to be seen when he has his cab drive by, so John sneaks into Baker Street after dark and packs for a few nights away. Harry is waiting on her doorstep in her flannel pajamas, arms crossed and looking frighteningly like their mother. She plys him with tea and doesn’t ask any questions.

 

The next steps are unpleasant but obvious, and they start on the phone. It is late when John settles into his room, but he has his orders.

Mycroft answers on the fifth ring. “John.”

“Mycroft.”

“How _are_ you?”

“Better now. Been thinking, and now I’m feeling downright peachy.”

“Oh, are you? I see.”

That tone. All of the hairs on John’s neck stand up. “You’ll be interested to know that we had a break-in at Baker Street a while back. Loads of things lifted. Landlady saw the great arse responsible and would be eager to point him out in a line-up.”

“I thought it time you phoned. I was considering sending round a car if another week passed.” John can hear his smug little smirk through the phone. He thinks because John’s figured it out that he’s forgiven.

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Odd that you phoned, then, isn’t it?”

Rage boils under John’s skin. “Lose the chummy tone, Mycroft.”

John can hear the rustle and creak of Mycroft settling back in his chair. “Very well. What can I do for you, Doctor Watson?”

“I need money.”

A slight pause. “No.”

John almost flings the phone against the wall. His teeth clench and his voice is a hiss. “Listen, you right bastard, the things I know about, the things you’ve done...Should I phone the bbc or would a print source be more dignified...?”

“John. Stop.” Mycroft’s tone has shifted entirely. “Allow me to finish.” John breathes through his nose and listens. “No. You do not.”

“What’s that?”

“No. You do not need money.”

Flinging the phone has become a viable option again. “Yes, actually, I do.”

An infuriating sigh. “My brother was not very forward thinking in most regards, Doctor, but it appears in his final hours he drafted a will. You are the sole beneficiary of his monetary resources, which I assure you, are quite sufficient for whatever you may need.”

Oh god. Oh god. John rubs his eyes and breathes to compose himself. “And...and...you were going to tell me this, when, exactly?”

“As I said, I was planning to send round a car.”

“Right.”

“As it is, I’ll have the papers brought to your sister’s tomorrow evening. A signature is required and it is all yours. Very tidy.”

Very tidy. God, Sherlock. Stop being so good at this.

“Anything else you require, John?”

 _Mycroft knows where he is._ John sets his shoulders. “The...thieves. At Baker Street. They...stole some of your brother’s things."

“Indeed. Did they? What a shame."

"I wonder..." John lowers his voice, "...where those items are now.”

"Doctor Watson, we mustn’t forget that Sherlock is _dead_ , and has no further use for material possessions," Mycroft says, with all the confidence of a man who knows his phone is tapped. "Looking for them would surely be a waste of precious time.”

John closes his eyes. So. No shortcut to him. Only straight through. “Right. Yes.” John’s heart is in his throat.

“Don’t fret, John. When they are ready, lost items almost always turn up.”

Mycroft ends the call. John covers his face in his hands and sits still for a long time, just breathing.

 

John sleeps hard and deep in Harry’s guest room, a stark modern affair with white linens, white furniture, and white walls. The calming blankness is a relief after his cluttered weeks inside his own head. He doesn’t remember his dreams.

In the morning, he wanders out to the kitchen. Harry is there, dressed in her crisply ironed dress shirt and slacks, calmly cracking open a box of pastries from the bakery up the street. She’s never been one to cook.

“Got you some breakfast, Johnny.”

“Thanks.”

They sit at the marble-topped island in the kitchen, Harry smoking, John eating a scone with his coffee. Silence.

Harry stubs out her first, and says, “Do you need to talk or anything?”

“Um. No.”

“How long do you need to stay?” She lights up a second. God, he misses Sherlock.

“Just a day or two. Thanks and all.” He pours another cup of coffee from the pot and helps himself to milk. “I’m good now.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m leaving. London. For a while.” It’s the only way he can stand it, he’s realized.

Harry looks up, and takes a long drag. “Shouldn’t you stay where you can see your therapist?”

John swallows hard and avoids her judgmental gaze. “I’m not a head case, Harry. I’m fine.”

“You never should have been over there.”

John sets his mug down harder than he means to. “My best friend killed himself in front of me, Harry. This has nothing to do with politics or Afghanistan. Or you.”

She sighs and breathes out a plume of smoke in his face that makes John melt with memory. “Right. Okay.”

“Jesus, Harry.” He picks a croissant from the pastry box. “I’ll have to find a new therapist anyway. When I get settled.”

“You’ll tell me where you are?” She doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Yeah. All right.” John grabs his coffee mug and turns back to the guest room. “Sorry. I have to make a call.”

 

The next step, the irrevocable step. The phone rings only once before it is picked up.

“Lestrade, here.”

Swallow, steady. “Greg, hi. It’s John.”

“John, thank fuck. Glad you called. That was a real cock-up at the flat the other night. You all right today?”

“Greg.” John’s body is vibrating. “I’m ready to talk.”

Long silence. “What?”

“I’m ready to tell you. About the phone call.”

“John? You certain?”

He winces at Greg’s pained tone. He almost can’t do it, but he has his orders. Sherlock made this so easy. John doesn’t even have to lie.

“Get a pen. I’ll tell you what he said to me. Every word.”

They rattle off his tongue easily, John knows them so well. It is just like falling.

***

_“An apology. It’s all true._

_Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty. I’m a fake. The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes. It’s a trick. Just a magic trick._

_This phone call – it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?_

_Goodbye, John.”_


	2. And After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes._ John knows an order when he hears one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been mostly written and stewing away on my hard drive for ages, and I'm utterly shocked that it is finally finished and posted. Oddly, watching Season 3, rather than putting me off writing an alternate reunion, actually got me going again to get this finished. I must thank bk7brokemybrain for the helpful work as a beta reader, and for dealing with beta-ing something written almost a year after the first part.

Day two hundred sixty-seven.

It is unseasonably warm, apparently, and so John has all of his windows open, even this late at night. The sea air is fresh and cool in his lungs, and the crash of the waves is like a lullaby.

The cursor blinks at him. He is undoing the theft and recovery of Reichenbach tonight, and the words simply won’t be written. John is many things, but creative has never been high on the list.

 _Never meant to be a writer, Sherlock, you great arse. Thanks so much for this. I swear, when you come back..._ and then John clamps his mind shut. Hope has been a sad partner all these months.

Coffee will help. He puts on the kettle, stares out the window into the darkness.

He’d left London a week after his confession to Greg, making a small dent in the monumental amount of cash in his account by paying rent at Baker Street a year ahead and purchasing a tiny car to get himself far, far away. He’d driven west and south, had a nightmarish pass through Dartmoor, and then he was on completely unfamiliar road. All of Cornwall beckoned, empty of memory. He’d driven until he reached the sea, and then drove on still, the open sky and bare cliffs clearing his head, making the task before him sharp and clean and simple.

Just south of Newquay he’d stopped at a ragged, wind-beaten inn, got a room, and slept for fifteen hours. When he woke, he’d opened all the windows, let the clean salt air seep into his pores, and renamed his blog. **Sherlock Holmes, the Fake: His Crimes and How He Did Them**. Then he’d sat back and let the grief hit him again, as hard as at the gravesite, as hard as the smell of hair serum and old sheets. Like burying him all over again.

Back at the window, trying not to break. _He’s alive. Dammit. He’s alive._ Breathe in. Breathe out.

Across the road, on the beach, a “To Let” sign had been swinging, buffeted by the winds. This was the place. The rooms were on the top floor, overlooking the sea. He’d taken them that afternoon.

Every week since, John has undone another of Sherlock’s cases, his readership growing by thousands as he explains how Sherlock must have accomplished each of his great crimes, exposing details no one but Sherlock’s most trusted partner could possibly know.

I hope this is what you wanted, Sherlock, you berk. Because if not...

The coffee is brewed, the smell settling John’s nerves a little. Back to the keyboard, do this. Just start. Fingers, move. **Art theft was a new one for Sherlock Holmes.** Undoing.

 

Mid-morning light on the swells, and John paddles slowly out, anticipation making his skin itch. The water shimmering, light bouncing and skittering off the surface. No sound but the lap and lick of the waves and the occasional gusts of wind. God yes.

He’d not planned to start surfing, but the bleach-haired flowers in the wind inhabiting the ground floor flat had insisted on taking him out one morning. John had been tossed around by the surf for an hour before he managed to bodyboard long enough to feel a moment of exhilaration. Not worth it. He was battered and cold. He’d told the flowers, Tony and Angelica (hurt, baffled faces- who wouldn’t love what they love?) as he marched home, dripping and humiliated, that he was unlikely to ever try again.

It was after a shower and coffee, staring out at the water, that he realized he hadn’t thought about Sherlock for the entire hour in the sea. Huh.

He’d gone out again the next morning, and every morning since.

Almost to the break, his arms and back have a pleasant burn from the long paddle out. The surf is not high today, just moderate breakers that fizzle into foam with very little remorse, but John feels his heart rate speed up nonetheless.

It's not a firefight, or a murder, but this is what John has now. _I said dangerous, and here you are._

_Shut up, Sherlock._

John digs in deep and hard as the first wave piles up behind him.

 

Out of the shower, warm again. Two soft pings announce comments on the blog. John waits until a pot of coffee is brewed before he slides into his chair to survey the idiocy.

The first is of the usual variety: **How nice that your telling truth now, Dr. Watson. SHerlock Holmes destroyed good peoples lifes and now you get all the profit. Burn in hell.** Sigh. If only there was profit in this, John thinks. Comment removed by moderator.

He scans the second, finger poised to delete, then stops and reads again, slowly.

**Please. You have Sherlock kidnapping the boy in London and murdering the couple in Birmingham on the same day. Try again.**

Walk away from the screen. Breathe. Probably Mycroft. Sounds like him. Probably.

“John!” A voice from outside. Deep and nasal. John walks to the screen door to respond, grateful.

"Tony. Cheers."

"Come down, brah. Ange has new batch finished. First choice to friends of the artist."

Their building reeks of wax and sage, so this announcement is no surprise to John. The flowers in the wind run a roadside stand selling Angelica's homemade sand candles to tourists or anyone else willing to part with five pounds. They earn enough on a Sunday, John has learned, to keep themselves supplied with cereal, pot noodle, and condoms for the week to come.

Down the stairs. Angelica is setting up the stand ten yards away, and Tony is carting over a teetering armload of sturdy, crusty candles.

"New color. Check it out. Mauve."

John nods as he approaches. God, he's far away from London. "I'll take one."

"Righteous." A clap on the shoulder. John winces, but Tony doesn't notice.

 

It’s the military training that carries him through, John knows. Schedule like clockwork, sleep, wake, surf, shower, coffee, blog. Eat, run, coffee, blog, eat, sleep. Repeat. Physical exertion to keep his body sharp, sleep in small, predictable increments, food simple, tasks concrete and scheduled. He can do this. He can.

It’s always late at night when it falls apart. There is no one else, ever, but he’s really alone in the cold, silent hours, when even the ocean seems to quiet and his dark thoughts rattle around for attention. Then he writes his other blog. His real blog. Posted, anonymous, for an audience of none. **Wish you were here today, you’d have had some choice words about Tony’s new braids. Thinking about Dartmoor again tonight, then that awful scotch at home and after. Jesus, I miss you.** Isn’t sure why he posts at all, and doesn’t just keep a journal, but he does, every night. Then he can sleep.

Then wake, surf, shower, coffee, blog. Repeat.

 

Mid-afternoon, gray and misty. Posted a new entry, undoing the dead woman with the speckles ( **Who could have known the poison was hidden in the body lotion? Only Sherlock himself, of course, because he’d planted it there.** )

Mrs. Hudson has called, as she always does when John posts a case. He’ll call her back. Later. She still doesn’t understand.

John wanders out to see how business is at the candle stand. Tony and Angelica wave him over, Ange’s peasant skirt swirling in the gusts off the cliffs. John starts over, then stops. A car has slowed up by the stand and parked in the gravel lot by the inn. Familiar, but why? John watches, chest suddenly tight.

A head of dark curls framed in the window, profile. Oh god. Oh. God.

Out of the car now, narrowed eyes passing over the decaying beachfront buildings, judging, as always. John considers running, but where to? And why?

She sees him, and her chin tilts up, eyes connect. John is frozen in place, he suddenly feels like a fugitive.

“Doctor Watson,” she calls, probably, as the wind catches her words and they soar away. She darts across the street as if traffic is rushing around her. London speed, John thinks.

Deep breath. What is she doing here? Walk towards her.

“Sergeant Donovan.”

 

John leads her up the rickety stairs to his flat. She is cradling a mauve candle the flowers have foisted upon her.

She takes off her coat. John doesn't offer his hand and neither does she. Uncomfortable stare, John hears her voice in his head. _One day just showing up won’t be enough._

"I can make tea or coffee," John offers. He didn’t see or speak to her after it happened, not since the night (deep breath) the night they ran, when it started. Greg took over, after. Kept them apart. Only Anderson had the nerve to call.

"Coffee, yeah. Black. Thanks." She doesn't sit and John thinks _She's nervous too._

John takes his time in the kitchen, settling himself. He hears her sit down, so he picks up the mugs, ready for combat.

Settles in across from her on the sofa. “So. Sergeant.”

“Doctor.”

John nods. His gaze drifts to her hands gripping the mug. “Did you get married?”

She looks at the ring for a moment. “Engaged.” Her eyes narrow. “You learned some tricks from him.”

“Congratulations.” Sip of coffee. “Who is it? Anderson?”

“Fuck, really?” She shakes her head. “Just terrific that one of the stupidest mistakes of my life gets brought up repeatedly by you two twats.” Realizes what she’s said, takes a shaky sip of coffee. Then, “That was once, John. One time.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“His name’s Curtis. Teacher. Nothing to do with any of that mess.”

“How’d you meet?” What the hell are they talking about?

“Internet. Easier, you know. I don’t have a lot of time.” Her gaze wanders the flat, taking it all in with her detective’s appraising glare. Makes John’s stomach hurt. “Lot of candles,” she observes.

“So. You’re still with the Yard?” Get to the point.

She settles back into the cushions, and John knows he’s given her the opening she needs. “Yeah. My associating with criminal mastermind Sherlock Holmes was investigated, but I wasn't found responsible.” Nod, keep her talking. “Not back on the Murder Squad though. Special assignment, from Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

John’s had enough of special assignments. “Yeah?”

“Said to tell you to ring him.”

“I will.”

Silence. He can tell she wants him to ask. He doesn’t. “My assignment?” she says finally. “It’s you.” Heart rate up, even though he knows, he knew that as soon as she drove up. “I read your blog, and I follow up on what you write. That’s what I do now. New interviews. Look at the old evidence. That sort of thing. Just, confirm. See what needs fixing, because of him.”

John nods. Shit, Sherlock, you didn’t think of this, did you? That the police might actually do their job well. Not something you’d consider.

Sally Donovan meets John’s eyes. “So."

"What?"

"I know."

“Know...what exactly?”

“That it’s all made up."

Swallow. "Made up?"

"That you are writing fiction, John.”

Jesus. John looks out at the ocean.

Donovan continues. “There is actual evidence you know. All sorts. Fingerprints, witnesses, timetables, DNA, confessions. Logic. Basic skills, John. We’re not morons. Haven’t been able to find a single shred of evidence to connect Sherlock Holmes to any of the tales you’ve spun. And plenty of evidence to keep all the shitheads that were originally convicted for the crimes right where they are.”

She leans in.

“So the question is. Why? Why would you do this, drag his name through the mud?” She sits back, sips her coffee. "I thought you were in love with him.”

Wait, what? John’s heart batters his ribs. “Excuse me?” Voice too high. “You...thought...”

“Oh right, sorry. In love with each other. So why? Why?”

“I...” John can’t get any words out.

“I have three theories," she carries on, and John stares, still trying unsuccessfully to protest. “See, on one hand, I think that maybe he really did it, was the master of deception, and so now you are making all of this up because you don’t know how he did it and that pisses you off. You’re mad as hell.”

John inhales to respond, but she continues without a pause. “But then I think...no, everything I know about you says that you would remain loyal so the end. So, theory two. You’re writing all of this to distract us, because what the freak was really up to was actually much, much worse.”

John can’t hold in a snort, and it’s a relief. “Worse than being a kidnapping serial killer thief who sets fires and beats people with an aluminium crutch?”

Donovan smiles too, but it’s a cold, sad smile. “Right. Exactly. So, here’s my third theory.” She stands up and walks to the window, leans on her stiffened arms and looks out at the expanse of beach and surf. John watches her. Her shoulder blades arc in perfect ridges beneath her shirt. “Maybe he didn’t do any of it. Maybe he was exactly what we thought he was.”

“What, an arsehole?”

She turns, rolls her eyes. Sighs. “No. I’m saying maybe we were wrong, John. Maybe...I...was wrong."

Oh god. Can't look at her. "And now you feel guilty."

"No," she walks back and sits, picking up her mug again. "I've gone over it a hundred times in my head. If I could do it all again, I'd do it exactly the same. I had a suspicion, and I brought it to my superior. It's my job. Sherlock Holmes was the arse who offed himself before we got to even investigate."

John hasn't felt like punching anyone for months. It's a welcome change.

"But by writing these fake stories, you’ve showed me how impossible it was for him to be what I suspected.”

Oh.

"We’ve convinced the Yard. Evidence is overwhelming. His name’s being cleared. DI Lestrade wanted to tell you himself, but I drive faster than him."

John sits down. This cannot be part of the plan. Can it? Damn it, Sherlock.

"The only thing that doesn’t fit is you. You, lurking about Cornwall, making up these stories, assuring that the public despises him, blames him for every high-profile crime in the last two years. I’m losing sleep, John, trying to figure out why. I never lose sleep."

John meets her eyes. She’s so sure. The quiet stretches out for too long. Finally he says, "Are you staying over? I only have the sofa. If not, it’s a long drive back to London. Don’t let me keep you.”

“John, listen to me. We’ve cleared him. He’s innocent.” She comes over and sits by him on the sofa. A new approach, good cop for once.

“I have a spare pillow and blanket.” John rises, but he’s a bit too shaky to walk far, so he stops and leans on the armchair.

“You don’t have to do this anymore, John.”

That steels him up. “You’re not the one who gets to decide that,” he says, and walks to the kitchen. _What am I supposed to do now, Sherlock?_ “Something more to drink?”

“Lestrade will tell you the same. You’ll listen to him.” Her voice rises to be heard from the sofa.

“Orange juice?”

Donovan goes completely quiet. John bangs around in the cupboards and pours himself a noisy glass of juice, which he guzzles down. Parched. His mind has gone blank, except for Donovan’s words on repeat. _"I thought you were in love with him.”_ Over and over. Hands brushing, and the warm burn of the scotch, and that terrifying certainty in his gut…

Slams the glass down, juice sloshing out.

“John.”

She’s in the doorway, prying detective’s eyes watching him.

Innocent. They know. God. “Thank you. Thank you for telling me,” he says at last, and means it. God, he means it.

“We can help you, if you’ll talk to us.” She walks forward, and for a moment John thinks she’s going to hug him. “Please, John. Please. Just. What the hell are you doing all this for?”

Close eyes, deep breath. “As soon as I know, I’ll tell you.”

Her sigh is long and resigned. She’s too rational to understand that’s the truth.

 

As soon as the door closes behind Sally Donovan, John reaches for his phone, and there are four text messages waiting.

**Need to talk. Call me, news in the case. Greg**

**Donovan has some very interesting theories, call me. Greg**

**Are you getting these? Don’t talk to anyone until you talk to me. Greg**

**Where are you, John? Donovan may be heading your way. Call me. On my way as well. G**

John texts back.

**If you’re halfway to Cornwall, turn back. Minion already heading home. I’ll call you tomorrow.**

And then, after a moment, **Thanks.** Although, he isn’t sure how Greg will interpret that one.

John has a long sit on the sofa, nursing a coffee until it is cold and staring into nothing as the twilight creeps across the floor and up the walls and finally it is dark.

_What should I be doing now, Sherlock?_

His phone beeps.

**If you don’t call tomorrow, I’m driving down there. Greg**

John smiles, and writes back, **Understood** , and hits send. Then, after a long breath, he pulls up a contact number he has ignored for almost a year and writes **Cleared by the Yard. But you probably already know that.**

“Umbrella” texts back almost immediately. **I do. But I never mind confirmation from a trusted source.**

 

He should feel better, relieved, but for the first time in months, John’s nightmares return. Sherlock’s billowing coat as he falls, and the blood as it traces the cracks of the pavement. Echoing voices and hands that hold him like talons by his arms and legs. That hand reaching out to him, and firelight flickering and the warm taste of scotch on his tongue…

Bolt awake, sweating. He hears Ella’s voice. _Write, John._

 **I fucking miss you, you arse. Where are you? Come home.** John sits for a long time, staring at the screen, but he really can’t think of anything else to say. He’s said it all already.

Post.

Day two hundred ninety-five.

 

0830\. John is dripping wet and battered due to losing which way is up and tussling with the sand before finding his breath again. Headache, eyes stinging, crust of sand and salt over every inch of him, contusion on the shoulder and knee. Why had he ever started this damn sport?

It’s a clear, windy day. The flowers have the candle stand open across the road, and Tony waves and yells something, but he’s too far off. John raises a hand in reply.

Up the wooden stairs, outside the flat. He props up his board and pulls down the top half of his wetsuit to shed some of the sand outdoors before it all ends up down the drain, then checks his bruises. The one on his shoulder is darkening and swelling. Fabulous. Kicks off his filthy shoes. Now for a hot shower, pain killers, and a nap.

In the door and Sherlock is sitting in the armchair. John freezes, then shakes his head. _No._ “No. Nope. No.”

He bangs back out the door, the old screen shuddering on it’s hinges. Breathe. Oh shit. Lean on the rail and breathe. Shit. Breathe. John’s heart is in his throat, hammering. He must have seen wrong.

He peeps in through the screen and, yes, it’s Sherlock sitting there, peering back at him like he’s an interesting specimen in a petri dish. He’s wearing his coat and...that hat. John steps away from the door, and tries to catch his breath again.

Hallucination? Concussion? He has to assume. John takes a fortifying breath and pulls open the door.

The hallucination in the armchair sits up and opens its mouth to speak. John doesn’t look too closely, and keeps walking, pointing an accusing finger at the figure in the chair. “Don’t speak, don’t move, just...don’t.” March to the bathroom and slam the door.

John’s mind goes quiet during the long, hot shower that follows. The small bathroom is thick with steam as he shaves (very deliberately, take your time, hands shaking) and wraps a thick towel round his waist.

 _When I open the door, he’ll be gone._ That thought blasts adrenaline through his veins. He throws the door open so hard it bangs into the wall with a thud.

Sherlock is still sitting there, eyebrows knitted together, hands folded in his lap, staring at John in his towel. John looks away, stomps to his bedroom. Clothes. He needs them. In all the times he’s imagined this moment, he is always wearing clothes. So. Pants, trousers, socks, shirt, jumper, breathe.

John storms back out, past the occupied armchair and into the kitchen to put on the coffee.

“John.”

God. John’s eyes drift closed. Time stops. That voice. “No.” Sherlock doesn’t speak again.

The coffee is ready, and he occupies his hands with pouring and adding sugar (just the right amount) and milk for himself. It feels better to have something to do with his hands, carrying mugs, setting one on the side table, taking a seat on the sofa.

Then finally, he looks. Really looks. He’d thought he was alive, known it, but John realizes he hadn’t really _believed_ it until now, with the man himself sitting across from him, taking a sip of coffee and looking rather bemused.

“You’ve taken up...surfing.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re tan.”

“You’re not.”

“No.”

John swallows and sips his coffee again, trying to find his footing. “How’d you get in here?”

Rolled eyes. “Really, John? Please.”

“Why the hat? Did you think I wouldn’t recognize you?”

Sherlock pulls the hat off and tosses it to the floor, averting his eyes. “You deciphered the clues I’d left.”

“You couldn’t just write me a letter explaining what you’d done?”

“Oh, _dull._ ” Dismissive hand wave. “How long did it take you?”

John snorts, and feels almost normal for a moment. “If you don’t already know that, I will actually eat that damn deerstalker, with pickle relish and a fine bordeaux.”

“Twenty-three days, John?"

“I was grieving, Sherlock.” His voice is louder than he means it to be. He breathes deep. “Doesn’t make one particularly observant.”

“Yes. I...” Sherlock fidgets with his coffee mug, and John hears something new in his voice. Unfamiliar. “I didn’t expect...”

“You didn’t expect me to grieve for you?”

“I calculated you would discover the truth in four days.”

John lets out a real laugh this time. “You have a lot of faith in me.”

“Yes.”

Oh.

John’s face is hot, and he sips coffee in the quiet that follows. Sherlock is just sitting there, like he never left. Sherlock. Right there. Sherlock.

"So." Sherlock puts down his coffee and lets his hands slam onto the arms of the chair, snapping John’s attention back. "We should be off."

John laughs again. Any moment now, he might not be able to stop laughing. "Um...What?"

"Back to London.”

John stands, needs to move. His body is not entirely within his control. "So I'm meant...I should just...just..." Voice out of control as well. Deep breath. Close eyes. Easier when not looking at him. "I cannot just leave. In case it missed your keen powers of observation, I live here now, Sherlock."

John opens his eyes. Sherlock’s hands are tented under his chin as his eyes (oh god, his eyes, John’s forgotten) dart around the small flat. “Furniture came with the rooms, nothing extra added by you, no personal touches or photographs. Eight cans of soup and one box of cereal in the kitchen cupboards, single fork, knife, and spoon, one plate, one bowl, one pot. Clothing wrinkled as if folded badly; you’re still leaving it in a suitcase, haven’t put anything in drawers. Venn diagram of coffee rings around your computer, so you spend most of your time there at the desk, writing or possibly just staring out at the sea. Your only new possessions in the past year appear to be seventeen variously scented and colored candles, a surfboard, and a wetsuit. Conclusion, you don’t live here, John. You’re on holiday here.”

God, it’s really him. John leans his hands onto the back of the sofa and grips the faded fabric, hard. “I like it here. Lots of space.”

“Lots of space in Afghanistan too. Didn’t make you want to stay.”

“You arse.”

“So, you’re coming.”

“Give me a moment, Sherlock. Geez. Do I have a moment?” His voice is loud again, he can hear it over the pounding in his ears.

Sherlock shrugs, and settles in to the armchair with his coffee. John huffs out a long breath and resumes his seat on the sofa. He breathes slowly, the way he’s learned, until the noise in his ears is just the sound of the surf out the window and he can feel his feet on the ground again.

Sherlock is still sitting there. Right there.

John tries for casual. “Do I get to ask why?”

“Why what?”

“Heh, why what.” Exasperating, shakes his head. “Why, Sherlock? Why you faked your death? Why you couldn’t tell me anything? Why it’s been a year? Just, why?” John has to pause for breath, the list of why is far too long for one sitting.

Sherlock’s gaze is far away for a moment. Then, right at him. "I have a weakness."

John’s breathing calms. "A weakness?”

Sherlock says, “I didn’t know I had one. Moriarty found it.”

“Oh.” There’s something in Sherlock’s tone that stops John from asking any more questions.

Sherlock shifts a bit, and John watches. He looks, what? Almost nervous. Just for a moment. John meets his gaze. Sherlock smiles, that little grin that’s mostly in his eyes, and John’s gut lurches. The moment lingers, changes, something.

“So,” Sherlock swallows hard and looks at his coffee. “I’ve been following the blog.”

Feet on the floor, John. Yes, the blog. “That was what you wanted, wasn’t it? For me to prove you a fake? Before you...on the phone…you said…” _Tell anyone who will listen._

His head comes up, blue blue eyes. “That blog...oh yes, yes. That was very helpful. Convinced all sorts of idiotic criminals that I was the real Moriatry so that I could get into their organizations and bring them down. Excellent stuff. Just as I’d hoped. John, you were invaluable.”

God, John wants to shout out or sob as three hundred days weight of fear and worry soar off of his shoulders. He feels tears coming, almost lets them.

“Of course, you were miserable at getting dates or times to make any sort of logical sense, so be pleased no one rational attempted to actually _prove_ I’d done any of the things you wrote…”

“Actually, Sally Dono…”

“But that is all beside the point. I meant...your other blog.”

His other blog. John’s entire body goes numb. “What?”

Sherlock continues on after a small pause, clearing his throat. “I stopped at Baker Street before coming here. Think I may have induced a mild cardiac episode for Mrs. Hudson, but she recovered quickly, and seemed quite pleased to see me.” A small smile. John is frozen in place as Sherlock leans down and reaches into a bag tucked to the side of the armchair.

“My...other blog,” John stutters out. His other blog. “That was private.”

“Yes. It was.” It is a quiet reply while looking down and away, and John wants to ask more, and also doesn’t, the flood of what Sherlock might now think holding him captive on the sofa, unable to react.

From the bag, Sherlock pulls two glasses- John knows them from the set left behind at Baker Street- and the scotch. That bottle of scotch, the one they’d selected and shared after Dartmoor. That scotch. The one that he’d left. The clue. John stares at it, at the golden glint of the liquid, and the empty space where two glasses had been poured, so many months ago.

Sherlock twists the cap off, and John’s eyes are fixed on his hands, his long agile fingers. He pours one, then two, and John can see a small tremor as he pours, or is that only hope?

“Care for a drink?” It’s nine in the morning.

“You read my blog.”

“I read it.” Sherlock stands. He fills up all the space in the room. John’s heart is racing, mind spinning. He’s holding out a glass to John.

The last time they’d shared that bottle. _Just home from Dartmoor, where something had shifted, John knew. Some intimacy gained, some length of time together, of_ wanting _to be together, that had passed while they were there and made the whole thing suddenly ripe with meaning. Sherlock had insisted they stop on the drive back and spend a small fortune on a good bottle of scotch. He’d laid the fire while John tidied from their trip, and they’d settled into their chairs and Sherlock had poured two glasses and started talking nonsense about fingernails, and then suddenly, John knew, finally_ knew _for certain that this was it for him. He had sipped and listened, and basked in the rush of euphoria that he’d figured it out at last. When he’d gone to pour a second, John had grabbed Sherlock’s hand and held it too long, as the fire crackled and their gaze locked for that length of time that means I might lean in. I’m going to._ So bollocks, who’s he trying to fool, Sherlock’s read it all anyway, read it all in John that long night ago, didn’t need any blog to tell him.

Now he’s here, with the scotch. Sherlock knows what he’s offering. _”I thought you were in love with him,”_ John hears, in Donovan’s voice. Right. Damn.

John takes the glass, the fine sipping scotch, and belts it down, then rises up and crams himself into Sherlock’s personal space, grabbing his hair a little too hard and pressing his forehead against those fucking curls (not matted with blood, not buried in the earth, but right here) on his brow.

“You utter bastard,” he mutters.

Eyes closed. “I know.” After a minute, Sherlock’s hands grasp at John’s waist, and they stand there for a long time, John loses track, just feels the solid, living body in front of him.

“When I thought you were dead, I thought I should be dead, too,” John says.

After a pause, “I had to die, or you would have.”

Oh god. _His weakness_. “Shite.” John grips the dark curls even more tightly and squeezes his eyes shut. It is quiet for a long time, but John can almost feel the whirr of Sherlock’s mind, pressed against his own.

“What happens next?” That’s Sherlock, oddly uncertain. He pulls back, looking at John. It’s not even awkward to lean in and press a swift, soft kiss right on his mouth, so John does it, as if he’s done it a thousand times before. He’s mentally packing his rucksack. He's done here.

“We should be off. There’s loads of people to give mild cardiac episodes.” John steps back from Sherlock, but cannot quite let go. “Let’s start with Greg.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows knit and his eyes are piercing. “You’re coming back with me,” Sherlock says with just enough surprise that John realizes he didn’t really know, not for sure, until right then.

“Never left you, actually,” John replies, and sneaks in another smacking kiss before grabbing a few candles and trotting to his room to finish packing his gear. 

 

Day two hundred ninety-seven. Home.


End file.
